


Veracity

by Electric_Apple



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 01:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20349991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electric_Apple/pseuds/Electric_Apple
Summary: Fresh orange juice tastes better than bottled orange juice.A favourite shirt worn on a routine job is inevitably ruined.He gets the bed farthest from the door each time they stop for the night.His brother will always come through to pull his sorry arse out of the fire.These are fundamental truths in Sam’s life





	Veracity

**Author's Note:**

> Circa Season One

Fresh orange juice tastes better than bottled orange juice.  
  
A favourite shirt worn on a routine job is inevitably ruined.   
  
He gets the bed farthest from the door each time they stop for the night.  
  
His brother will always come through to pull his sorry arse out of the fire.  
  
These are fundamental truths in Sam’s life.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam’s epiphany, when it comes, comes by degrees.  
  
Which yeah, okay, if he stopped to think about it (and he doesn’t) he’d realise that this sort of contradicts the very definition of ‘epiphany’ but whatever, he’s so not in a headspace to deal with fucking _semantics_ right now. Jess would know how to use the word properly and Jess would correct him if she were here, but she’s not here and life has been near-enough-not -good-enough since she died, so this word, also near-enough-not -good-enough, is the best he can come up with.   
  
  
The first time he gets an inkling of it, they’re stopped at a gas station 340 miles out of Small Town Oklahoma. He’s pumping the fuel while Dean goes inside to buy ‘breakfast’ – stale Twinkies or potato chips, maybe a chocolate bar, the requisite carton of flavoured milk and two cups of crappy instant coffee. _Black_ coffee, because Dean usually forgets the milk. Sam can’t stomach anything but the coffee till noon, though if they’re in the right place he’ll sometimes search out a tub of yoghurt or a banana smoothie. Dean gives him shit about it, but not too much shit because he never has been able to figure out if the change in his brother’s diet preferences is due to his time at Stanford or his time with Jess. And while Dean can be insensitive at times, he is generally not willing to pick at the scab of the latter wound unless he absolutely has to.   
  
  
The petrol nozzle thumps off; he returns it to the side of the pump, glancing habitually at the gallons and the dollar value. He wonders briefly about the money – how much they have, how much they’re going to need for this latest job – but lately Dean doesn’t tell much (because he doesn’t ask much) about their financial situation and beyond a slight twinge of guilt when they hand over yet another fake credit card at yet another rundown motel, Sam can’t bring himself to care a great deal.  
  
  
He leans against the car, wishing they’d stopped somewhere with enough reception to check his Blackberry. Wishing too that he could hike himself up onto the bonnet but there’s an unspoken rule about that: it’s okay for Dean to do so, and okay for Sam to do it when Dean is there, but _no one_ climbs up without Dean’s approval, implicit or otherwise.   
  
He has an kind of odd logic about some things, his brother. Sam can drive the damn car through the wall of a house and get less grief about it than he does when he leans against it wearing a pair of jeans whose buttons may inadvertently chip the paintwork.  
  
Dean emerges from the run-down building and tosses him a packet of crisps. “Here. Best I could do.” Sour cream and onion, Sam notes, and he’d smile at his brother’s lame attempt to balance the five food groups were he not so fucking _tired_.   
  
Dean opens the door and starts to slide into the car, then pauses. “Oh hey, I forgot. Got you this too.” He reaches across the top of the car to hand him a bottle – an old, clearly washed-and-reused juice bottle that is, oddly, filled with something he can’t quite identify. “The girl inside said she squeezed it fresh this morning.”   
  
Sam takes a closer look, finally recognising the juice for what it is. He opens his mouth to say thankyou, but it’s not really what he means and instead he just kind of _looks_ at Dean till his brother grunts and runs a hand through his already rumpled hair. “What, you think I haven’t noticed you not eating?”  
  
Well yeah, actually.   
  
Dean sighs, looking momentarily a whole lot older than his twenty-six years. “Get your ass in the car, Sammy. And drink the fucking juice before I pin you down and pour it down your fucking throat.”  
  
He gets in the car.  
  
Three miles later, he finishes the fucking juice.   
  
  
* * *  
It makes sense that the jinjin is headed down into the underground storm drains, because it’s the one place they really don’t want to go themselves. Especially given that they haven’t been intending to _find_ the damn thing in the first place, expecting – inadvisably, as it turns out – a run-of-the-mill poltergeist. Simpler to deal with, just salt and burn and it’s over before they’ve replaced the cap on the canister. But no, they draw the jinjin and in the momentary surprise of discovering it, Sam throws the salt at it anyway.  
  
Turns out that salt and jinjins don’t mix, and it takes to its heels (hissing its discontent violently) before either of them can intercept it.   
  
Dean looks almost as pissed as the jinjin. “Oh, nice work, Sammy! They need _mercury_ dude, not salt.”  
  
As Dean has no more mercury on him than Sam does, he ignores this. “We going after it? What are we going to do if we catch up with it?”  
  
Dean shrugs, already sprinting for the door of the apartment. “Yeah, I’m working on that.”  
  
They follow it out into the street in time to see it drop down between the grates covering a storm drain; Sam drops to his knees to prise the cover open. By the grace of God they’ve landed in the same street where the car is parked; Dean sprints the few feet over to it and returns less then a minute later, shotgun in his hand and his pockets stuffed with rounds.  
  
Sam gets the cover off with a grunt and goes to lower himself down, but Dean thrusts the shotgun in his hands and goes first. “There’s a ladder,” he calls out as he disappears into the opening. Sam glances up and down the street to confirm that no one is watching, then heads down after him.  
  
There _is_ a ladder, but Dean either failed to notice or failed to tell him that it’s an _old_ ladder. Sam barely has time to wonder if the thing is going to be able to hold both of their weight at the same time when it starts to creak ominously, the bracket near his head shaking loose from the wall.  
  
_Ah, shit._   
  
Dean recognises the noise for what it is and scales the remaining distance quickly. Sam follows but it’s too late, the ladder is swaying dangerously and another bracket squeals and breaks overhead. He’s halfway down the ten feet from the street to the drain and he drops the last couple of feet in a sort-of-controlled freefall, landing with a soft _splash_ at the bottom.   
  
He manages, somewhat against his own expectations, _not_ to drop the shotgun.  
  
“Hey! Watch your big-ass feet!” Dean bellows (sort-of quietly, if such a paradox can be), looking down at the front of his t-shirt in disgust: Sam’s hasty descent has kicked up a great deal of muck, and a great deal of _that_ has splattered across the front of Dean’s shirt. Sam’s too busy confirming that his knees haven’t ended up around his hips with the force of the impact to particularly care.   
  
“I swear to God, Sammy, you ruin this shirt and I will fucking kill you myself,” Dean mutters, wiping at it – ineffectually – with the palm of his hand. “I’ve had this since, like, the tenth grade.”  
  
“Did you even _attend_ tenth grade?” Sam asks, deadpan curiosity, and ducks the reflexive cuff instinctively.   
  
Wishing he’d thought to bring a flashlight – or hell, even a Zippo – Sam turns slowly on the spot, looking for…_there_. A splash of muck, still dripping water, against the side of the tunnel branching away from them. The jinjin, then, moving quickly enough to stir up the storm water. He starts down the tunnel, Dean following, still wiping at his shirt and muttering furiously under his breath.  
  
They’ve gone maybe twenty steps before Sam concludes that he’s had about enough of it. “Dude, stop your bitching already. It’s just a damn shirt.”  
  
Dean’s _look_ could melt glaciers. “It’s not _just_ a shirt!” he hisses. “Black Album original, man, you know how priceless this is?”  
  
Sam doesn’t bother to answer. Dean reaches up to cuff him, again, across the back of the head.  
  
But, he stops bitching.  
  
It’s getting harder to see and as they progress another few feet, something – instinct, perhaps, or experience – quiets their voices and their footsteps so that they’re walking in a steady, almost soundless unison. Sam reaches for the rounds Dean holds out to him, loading the shotgun as quietly as he can. Dean, who’s packing because he _never_ not packs, slips wordlessly into the lead. He withdraws the pistol from the small of his back, motions fluid and familiar as he flicks off the safety and chambers the first round.  
  
Looking back, Sam will never be sure quite what happens next. There’s a blur of movement to his ahead and the jinjin comes flying out at them before he can even take aim, let alone fire. Dean opens fire with the pistol, chunks of rock flying as he empties the clip, giving Sam enough time to track and load and fire and fire again   
and –   
  
There. Got the fucker. The jinjin goes down in a steaming heap of grey goo.   
  
Sam stands there, panting with the effort of the brief scuffle. Then he reaches up to touch a tentative hand to the side of his face, where a few chunks of rocks have left a spray of bleeding nicks. “_Real bullets_?” His mimicry is deliberate, and spot-on. “Oh, _nice work_, Dean.”   
  
Dean has the grace to look at least a little abashed as he turns back to inspect the damage. He’s got his mouth open to make some undoubtedly smart-ass remark when the laughter fades from his eyes. “Where’d it get you?”  
  
“What got me where?” Sam echoes, not following.  
  
“Sammy, there’s blood – look at your shirt, man. That yours or his?”  
  
Sam looks down at his shirt, surprised to find that there is a long, deep gash across his chest that he’s only just starting to feel. “Um. Mine, I guess.”  
  
Dean curses. “Okay, let’s get you topside, check out the damage.”  
  
It takes them the better part of an hour to find a cover they can pry open in order to surface; by the time they’ve located it, Sam’s chest is smarting like a son-of-a-bitch and his right arm is starting to go numb. Dean has to boost him up onto the ladder – _after_ checking to make sure it will take the weight – and he somehow manages to haul Sam up and out into the street.   
  
They’re almost at the car when Sam looks across to see that somewhere in the struggle to get Sam up the ladder, Dean’s t-shirt has torn and is now liberally spattered with blood.  
  
“Man, I’m sorry.” He gestures vaguely with his left hand. “Your shirt…”  
  
And Dean just _looks_ at him like he’s out of his fucking mind.  
  
  
* * *  
They’ve had the same routine for as long as he can remember, only now they stop when they’re far enough away or they’re both too tired to keep going rather than the regulation hour after dinner (about the time, in days gone by, when Dad got sick of their bickering).   
  
They find some off-the-track motel in the nearest town or, better, along the highway and they lug in the two duffels and the laptop and whatever assortment of weapons Dean wants to clean that night. Dean always claims the bed closest to the door, an old childhood habit he’s never broken; shotgun, when they were kids, was always determined by the simple expediency of whoever got their hand on the car door first.  
And ten minutes after they’ve unlocked the door, Dean has emptied most of his duffle out onto his bed and is under a hot shower while Sam’s chasing the phone cord around, looking for a socket to plug the laptop modem into.  
  
On good nights, there’s enough hot water for both of them to have long showers. There’s a laundry mat down the road and the diner next door has semi-decent food, and the sheets are clean and the blankets don’t scratch and the bed is long enough to fit every inch of his six-and-a-half-feet. On good nights, Dean relinquishes the pistol in favour of a single knife under his pillow, and the tv works (hell, sometimes it even has cable) and they fall asleep watching reruns of the old Star Trek episodes they’d learned almost by heart growing up.   
  
On really good nights, Sam doesn’t dream.  
  
On bad nights, they salt the doors and the windows and sometimes the heating or air-conditioning vents, if they’re being extra-cautious. They carve symbols into the door frame and load shotguns full of rock salt of consecrated iron and line the tiny bottles of holy water up on the bedside tables and they eat whatever crap Dean can rummage out of the car in lieu of a proper meal. On bad nights, Dean sleeps with one hand curled under the pillow and the other on the butt of a shotgun while Sam shakes and sweats and dreams and wakes gasping or dry-heaving in the other bed.  
  
On really bad nights, Dean doesn’t sleep.  
  
He makes the pretence, insisting that the tv go off early or that Sam kill the light he’s reading by so that he can sack out in comfort, rolling into his covers, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders. Sam plays along, turning on the bed, wriggling around till he’s comfortable and closing his eyes in parody of sleep. But as soon as his breath evens out, he feels-more-than-hears Dean shift and reach for whatever weapon will work to keep the demons (literal, figurative, it doesn’t matter) at bay. On those nights, Dean stays awake the entire night, finger curled around the trigger, watching the doors, watching the windows, watching over Sam.   
  
There’s something like shame in his heart when Sam finally realises, at twenty-two, that Dean’s claiming of the bed has nothing to do with old habits and shotgun and everything to do with the notion that any evil fucker out there will have to get through him first.   
  
  
* * *  
Sam pretends he didn’t hear, because it’s easier than having to bear the weight of it.   
  
  
His fists, curled tight around his brother’s shirt, his anger hot and red and desperate in his brother’s face. _Don’t you say that! Not you, not after all this, don’t you say that!_ Because in that moment there’s _nothing_ he won’t do, _not one fucking thing_ he will not do or give or sacrifice, to end it.   
  
Dean’s eyes, bone-weary and aching with a different desperation; Dean’s fear shining in tears he’ll never shed. _The three of us, that’s all we have. And it’s all I have._ Dean’s admission, torn from a deep truth he rarely admits to himself, let alone shows to others. _Sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together, man._ And Sam’s step backwards, his change in focus, his _Dad, he should have called in by now, something’s wrong_, because he can’t deal with his brother going to pieces beneath his hands right now. He just can’t.  
  
But now this fuck wearing their father’s face and speaking with their father’s voice has Dean pinned against a wall and he’s spitting words that are more damaging than any weapon could ever be. _You know, you fight and you fight for this family but they’re never going to need you. Not like you need them. _  
  
Sam’s still struggling to move the Colt, his head about to explode with the pain of it, when the demon’s demeanour changes. Dean draws a sharp breath; when Sam turns his eyes toward him, he sees the blood streaming thick and red down his brother’s shirt. _Dean!_   
  
Dean’s face is twisted, and Sam doesn’t know, can’t _tell_, if the agony is borne of the wounds or the words spoken moments before. _Dad! Dad! Don’t you let it kill me!_ Dean’s not going to scream, not when Sam is pinned helpless and watching, but when he opens his mouth and _pleads_ for his life (_Dad, please!_), blood dripping down his chin - God help him, there’s a part of Sam that bears the sight of his brother’s dying better than the sound of his breaking.  
  
Then Dean sags against the wall.  
  
Heartbeats become moments become movements become actions. Forward momentum, the Colt in his hands, a decision made in the blink of an eye, the round tearing through his father’s body’s thigh. Won’t kill him, kill it, but the choice is averted and he’s on his knees beside his brother’s broken body. _Dean. Oh god, you’ve lost a lot of blood._  
  
And as he turns to check on their father, Dean’s ragged insistence so fundamentally _Dean_ that it makes him weak with relief, Sam forgets one of the fundamental truths of their life.   
  
_Never_ assume things can’t get worse, because they always will.  
  
Dad, rearing up, eyes wild and desperate but momentarily clear: _Sammy! You shoot me! You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!_  
  
Dean, just as desperate, blood gurgling deep his chest: _Sam! Don’t you do it! Don’t you do it!_  
  
Sam, standing here with the Colt in his hands and Dad’s death-wish lying before him and Dean’s death-rattle sounding behind him, and fuck if he knows what to do now.  
  
_Son, I’m begging you, we can end this now! Sammy!_  
  
He sets his jaw, cocks the pistol.   
  
Dean’s voice is barely a whisper now, thick and choked with blood, but Sam hears it as clearly as he feels each beat of his heart. _Sam, don’t._  
  
His grip on the Colt falters. Dad screams at him: _You can do this! Sammy! Sammy!_  
  
And Christ, even if he can shoot his father in cold blood – and he needs to, he needs to, he can do this because it needs to be done – he cannot break his brother, not now.   
  
He lowers the Colt.   
  
Dad’s roar is equal part pain and fury.  
  
Dean’s gasp is pure relief. _Sam…_ He absolves the blame; takes the burden of Sam’s choice with that one word.  
  
In doing so, he maybe saves Sam’s soul.


End file.
